Alone
by Johnlocked7
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John loses sight of himself and falls deeper than he ever has before. He is later admitted to a psych ward for his own protection, thanks to the help of Mycroft.
A week after Sherlock jumped, John stopped eating. He lost a nasty amount of weight and refused to eat because it caused him pain, and he wanted - needed - to feel something, anything.

Every day he would pull out his gun and look at it. He wouldn't do anything more, normally; but one day, when it just became too much, he actually put the gun to his head and just sat there, debating.

Would Sherlock want him to do this? No. Absolutely not. God no.

But did John care right now? Not one bit.

Mycroft, who had been watching John's every move since that day, saw John put the gun to his head and panicked. He had set up a few cameras in the flat in order to keep an eye on John. He tried talking to him about his newly found eating habits, but John just told him to piss off.

Mycroft quickly picked up his phone and dialed John's number. He watched as John looked at it across from where he sat in his sofa, not bothering to answer, as always. Instead, his hold tightened on the gun. The moment Mycroft noticed John's fingers move to the trigger, he immediately called for help.

A few seconds later there were people barging into John's flat. They carefully maneuvered their way upstairs to where he sat and talked him into handing the gun over. It took a while, but he finally did so, handing it to someone who then helped John to stand. He led the man out of his own flat and ushered him in to the black car that pulled up.

John sat motionless in the car, not saying a word the whole ride through. He felt numb. He wanted to die. He didn't want to be in a world where there was no Sherlock Holmes.

As the car pulled up to a building, John paid no mind. The door on his side opened and a man helped him out.

John now stood stock still, eyes glued to the ground as he waited for instructions, or for someone to speak, or for death to come grab him by the shoulders and pull him into the inevitable void.

But neither came; instead, someone was walking towards him, and John didn't even have to look up to know that it was Mycroft; he brought that damned umbrella everywhere, which is why it always gave him away.

"John," Mycroft greeted him, but he paid no mind. He paid no mind to anything these days.

John remained standing where he was until someone placed their hand on his shoulder blades and moved him forward gently. He kept his eyes low, trained on his feet as he walked.

Mycroft watched him from the corner of his eye and frowned. "John, do you know where you are?" he asked.

John shook his head slightly in response.

"You're at a ward," Mycroft said softly, a painful feeling of regret and sorrow buried itself deep within his chest. "You're here because you almost attempted suicide, and I cannot watch you do this to yourself. You've not eaten in days, and your health has plummeted immensely. This is the only thing that I know how to do in order to help you."

At the word ward, John looked up at Mycroft, then looked back down and shrugged. What did he care? The way he saw it, he had already been living at a ward.

Mycroft just sighs and shakes his head as he leads John in a certain direction. Upon their arrival to John's new room, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"You're to stay here until you are better, and I shall determine whether you are to be released or not. I am not doing this to torture you, John, but to merely look after you. I can no longer trust you to be on your own, and if anything happened to you, Sher-" he cleared his throat again. "Sherlock would never forgive me, even in death."

John just remained silent.

Mycroft opened the door to John's new living quarters, which was a white padded room with a bed, a bedside table, and a bookshelf filled with all kinds of books to read.

John walked in, sat down on the bed, and sighed. He felt resigned. He knew he needed this, but he would never admit it.

"Some of your clothes will be sent to you, but for now you can change into these," Mycroft handed him a pair of pale blue pajamas. "Please, John, get better." Then he left and closed the door, locking it as he went.

* * *

Two weeks into his stay, John had begun to hallucinate Sherlock. It had begun when John would talk to himself, but he would imagine Sherlock sitting down on the bed beside him, listening to his every word with content.

John would tell him how much he missed him, what he had been up to that day, what he had eaten; just small things that any other person would find boring, but not Sherlock. Sherlock was interested in everything John did.

One day, John had been reading a book aloud to Sherlock when he finally asked the impending question.

"So how did you do it, then?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at John with a confused expression. "How did I do what, John?"

John closed the book he had been reading and sat it down upon the bedside table before looking up at Sherlock. "How did you fake your death?"

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't," he whispered. He looked at John, his eyes glazed with sadness.

John just looked at him and shook his head. "But you're sitting here, talking to me, listening to me. Obviously you're not dead."

Sherlock shook his head sadly. "No, John," he said. "I'm sitting here, talking to you, listening to you, because you imagined me doing so. I am dead. Gone. You spend so much time alone that your mind reverts to the one thing you want most, which happens to be me."

John just stared up at the man, the ghost, the allusion. "No," he shook his head again. "No, you are alive, you are here. This is real."

Sherlock stood from the bed and peered down at John. "No, John," he said, his voice soft. "You see, but you do not observe, as always." His lips tilted up in a smirk. "My dear Watson, look at me, and I mean really look. I am not wholesome. You can see through me. I see through me. I do not exist."

And John did look. He took his time looking, and shook as he realized that Sherlock was right. John could see through him. He wasn't real. As John came to terms with this, Sherlock slowly began fading away.

John has been alone this entire time, talking to himself, reading to himself. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and wept. He was completely, and utterly, alone.


End file.
